‘On a ship,’ continued
the nun, ‘as in a Venetian convent, you are safe from all enemies, except
one – the sea – which can snuff out your life on a whim. And yet the ship,
like the convent, is a thing that most inhabitants learn to love. Perhaps
we humans always long for a mother, be it a church or a ship, to hold us
safely to her bosom, and comfort us.’

There
really was a floating orphanage in Venice called the Scilla. The philanthropist David Levi Morenos came up with the idea of ‘converting
a war ship into a peaceful shelter for the orphaned sons of seafarers and
to educate them in the traditional profession of their family’. I took the
liberty of setting my story a few years earlier than the real foundation
date of June 1906.

The original Scilla was an old grey-painted sailing ship. Boys were
usually taken in at the age of seven, and ‘graduated’ when they had learnt
all the skills necessary to gain employment as merchant sailors, naval
mechanics or fishermen.

The first intake was just half a dozen. By 1922, there were 102 boys
living on board, while 72 younger children were housed in dormitories on
shore at San Raffaele, not far from the Zattere, where the Scilla
was originally moored. The onshore building was also equipped with
teaching rooms and workshops.

Aboard, the young sailors slept in double rows of hammocks hung from metal
frames and poles. They rose at 5.30am, winter and summer. They tidied up
their hammocks and washed ten at a time in big tubs. (So in reality Teo
would have had problems with concealing her identity!) The boys then
washed their underwear in the same water.

By day they learnt practical skills, such as how to climb the masts and
riggings, how to unfurl and refold the sails and how to keep watch. Or
they went to the classrooms at San Raffaele for the more conventional
aspects of their education.

The real Scilla was established by an act of kindness and run in
the same spirit by David Levi Morenos. His wife Elvira helped with the
younger boys, tending
them
‘with a mother’s heart’.

In later years, the regime seems to have been harder. A former inmate of
the Scilla recalled a tough routine.

The ship’s cat
stopped dead and looked Renzo straight in the eyes: ‘Oh, another dirty
little boy. Worse luck!’
Renzo had come across several talking cats during the campaign to save
Venice from Bajamonte Tiepolo. None were overly respectful. However, none
had been quite as rude as this.
‘I was promised something better,’ lamented Sofonisba.
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ Renzo smiled.
‘You will be,’ said the cat.

Breakfast was bread and milk, but boys who had misbehaved were deprived of
one or the other: they were allowed to choose. Lunch was served in metal
mess tins, and consisted of pasta or soup and some meat. Dinner was
polenta, beans and dried cod. The only drink served was water. There was
no heating.

Photos from the early twentieth century show
the shaven-headed little boys in their sailor suits, busy scrubbing the
deck, folding sails and making rope. They are also seen at their desks,
and
eating their rations on wooden benches. Wrapped up in their naval coats,
they would attend the funerals of benefactors – this too would be cold
work in the winter, and boys were known to faint.

Before joining the Scilla, orphans were required to fill in a
questionnaire about their future. In one such document a little boy called
Leo Pavesi revealed that he had always wanted to be a sailor. When asked
‘What qualities do you have that make you suitable for your chosen
profession?’ he answered, ‘I am not afraid of water, and I can swim a
little.’ He was also asked if his mother or tutor approved of his choice,
and he responded that it was thought a bit of naval discipline would be
good for him.

By 1920, the Scilla had become too dilapidated for service. She was
broken up and another vessel was commissioned to replace her. The former
Volturnia was renamed the Scilla.

An unusual feature of shipboard life was
teaching the Scilla’s parrots to speak, using mirrors. Each boy would hide
his face behind a mirror and patiently talk to his
parrot. The bird, staring at a parrot face reflected in the glass, would
believe another of his own species was engaging him in conversation, and
would answer in kind. Although easily tricked in this way, they were
otherwise highly intelligent birds and seemed to rejoice in increasing
their vocabularies. Professor Marìn’s trained parrots were in great demand
for transmitting messages: the telegraph office and the telephone exchange
in Venice were both still submerged in mud.

Apart from a break between 1923 and 1945, the Scilla continued
functioning as a sailing school up until 1972. After the Second World War,
the old boat was a familiar sight at the island of San Giorgio Maggiore.
Locals still say that, after its tall masts disappeared, they always felt
that something was missing.

For much of the information about the Scilla I am indebted to an
excellent and beautifully illustrated book, La Scuola del Mare,
edited by Samuele Constantini and published by l’Assessorato
all’Educazione e all’Edilizia scolastica, Provincia di Venezia.

Old ships were also used as training vessels for young sailors in Britain
between 1856 and 1986, preparing them for enlisting in the merchant navy
or Royal Navy. At Greenhithe on the Thames was the Chichester Training
Ship for Homeless Boys, the hull of a fifty-gun frigate housing and
training 200 boys for service at sea.